#bogbiter

Hello beasties! Remember that guy I was rewriting? This man started in the same train of thought as Kyridon. Actually he was the OG. And he was admittedly not as cool. Or lore wise, thought out. He was PURELY designed for being a monster champ with a brawler kit.

And boy he has grown in concept since the start of 2021.

Let me tell you about a troll. His name is Throgg

Throgg from Warhammer Fantasy is one of the most intelligent individuals in the Old World. And most definitely the most intelligent troll period. While his original appearance did not paint him as especially bright, if just exceptionally competent in tactics. Yet The Kinslayer and End Times saga painted him a far more intelligent force. Like, he was Warhammer Fantasy's take on Smaug, having such a Shakespearean flair that one did not expect from some senior aged troll.

milkandcookiesTW does an exceptional video on the dude, and I do recommend reading Kinslayer as they not only make him the big bad, but also just because Felix and Gotrek books are just swag.

What does this do with our boy here? Well, the story below details that juxtaposition between pure predator and architect of the future of an entire species. Also yes we're revisiting the Freljord again fuckers because the Northern Lands of Ice and Frost need more things to kill you.

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In the Frozen lands, there lies the ancestral site of the Laitivern, the original Rulers of the Sky. For Generations, hundreds of  these wyvern clans would roost within the massive elder volcano of Wyrms Furnace, their kin dominating the skyline. And at one point they were not just limited to the Freljord either, for they had in older days conquered the world. They were cunning, and recognized that in a world of great beasts, numbers overwhelming lead to victory. They existed alongside Man, Troll, Minotaur, and Vastaya, but they were not on equal terms. They raided Man and Minotaur, competed with Troll, and preyed upon Vastaya. Their namesake became synonymous with dragons, for a flock of wandering Laitiverns could very easily overwhelm a territory and strip it of livestock and soldiers. 

The Rune Wars changed this dynamic however, for the sorcery unfolded onto the world would scar the lands they called home. Magibeast once dormant before days of creation rose up, and tempered the land in strange horrific ways. Magic radiated into new and terrifying plagues, and for as clever as the The Laitivern were, they did not know how to combat these new threats. But the other races did, and though they too had an uphill battle, they gained a footing when the Laitiverns themselves could not. They disappeared from most of the world, and those who resided in the Freljord soon found that Man and Troll had grown stronger. Now their meals were stolen away, or their hunting flocks ambushed and feasted upon. Some of these terrible magic plagues tore into scales like scalding iron, and left them too weak to fly. And those who could not fly, they starved. Many clans were razed in this era, and the Laitivern went into hiding, less they attracted the unwanted attention of Dragon Hunters and Slayers.

Those around the Freljord could sometimes go weeks without a successful kill. And as the magibeast roamed the land, and the shamans spread themselves out far and wide, those at Wyrm's Furnace had an idea to feed on them instead. The flesh of Balestag or Frost Casting Yeti could suffice a flock for much longer than a typical boar or cave bear. These hunts were not… always successful… but those who came back proved themselves the most capable and cunning of their flock, and were awarded the title of Mach'dala, or "Soul Downer''.

To their surprise, the young that ate upon the sweet meat of these corrupted creatures seemed to grow a powerful resistance to crippling frost magic, or bolts of channeled fire. Seeing positive effects of their more daring hunts, the tradition carried on, and slowly did their magical potency grow as those same hatchlings would then grow up into Mach'dala themselves. Near the modern age, as Noxus crashed the gates of holds in the east of the Freljord, some Laitiverns could deflect the magic, and those that had hunted shamans could now bring their own runic powers to the hunt. But they had also harnessed in this time the "Styg '', or "Wrath". The ability to breathe a clouded emission black as storm clouds and rolling with red thunder,  that could direct at prey and foe alike. The Laitivern became known as Galdrveiðrormr, or as the Mage Hunter Wyverns. And those of Wyrm's Furnace grew bold, and even with Anivia in the skies… they claimed the heavens as their domain.

Wyrm's Furnace however was full of more Laitiverns than the Mach'dala. There were the Oldsouls who guided the roost and healed its soldiers, the Foragers who gathered supplies for nesting and firemaking, the Bouncers who protected the roost, and the Carvers, who carved out rock for them to build more nests and roosts. An apt home for hatchling, with many careers to seek. Among a clutch of eggs that belonged to a esteemed Carver and Mach'dala, was Veyolkos. 

It was very clear after he hatched he was born a gifted hatchling, with his scales sharpening very early on, and learning to glide within a month of hatching. But this caused the problem where he was a bit too curious. Curiosity in the Freljord for even humans and Yordles has to be tempered, otherwise death would be the answer to the inquiry. So they kept him near the Oldsouls, who had no qualm with watching a hatchling. Except Veyolkos the moment he learned to speak, had too many questions. He asked why they collected spears, and was told they were warrior's trophies. When he asked if he could make a spear, the elders were dumbfounded, and had no idea if they could. Humans seemed to make them with ease, but they were so thin the Laitivern's saw them as an inconvenience. What use was a weapon if you were already so dangerous unarmed. He didn't like the answer, and attempted to make such spears. And then axes. And then disastrously, a bow. After a few days and a few more missing scales and bruises from the Laitivern Chick's attempted craftsmanship, they relieved Veyolkos of their watch, the Oldsouls growing tired of his boundless energy and always fidgeting talons resulting in injuries around the roost. 

This was unseemly, as chicks could easily get lost or snatched up by an Azurite Eagle. But a few experienced foragers agreed, for his mother couldn't take him as she hunted far more dangerous beasts, and his father worked near falling stone for a living. Taking him under their wing, they showed them the shells they used to forage water, and the branches they searched for that carried the healing ingredients needed for the Oldsouls to use. They showed him flint, and chunks of metal along the cliff faces that helped start flame. And this, seemed to get him wondering if the wood they harvested for the fires couldn't be used to make something else. Especially seeing how easily the wind could snatch their cache from their talons. So he took to some branches, and as the veterans foraged, attempted to make a basket. He had never seen a basket, but he figured something that could hold multiple supplies at a time they could carry in their jaws and talons, was far easier. And to his chagrin, after six fell apart, the seventh carried back 3 shells of water and a bundle of medicinal batteries. The Veterans were curious about the little thing, and asked the young hatchling how it was made. And Veyolkos was more than happy to show.

As he grew into a Yearling, he would continue as a forager. Though he would not lie, he wasn't particularly fond of just being a forager. Yes he made baskets for collecting, but he also wanted to make more with the sticks, bones, and stones at his disposal. So he made for larger baskets yes, and sleds to make transporting caches easier, but he also took to equipping himself with armor. Most notably, taking the hides of kills and tanning them to make leather. To make into stripes. And to create spears around his face and shoulders, as to create a formidable defense as he and other foragers would descend into the valley to steal from the Freljord's wolves and bears. Veyolkos despite his size would always attempt to lead the attack, for though he was similar in size to the bears he believed his craftsmanship would stand the test against them. And the first couple attempts did not. But he learned to treat the wood with flame, and sharpen the bone instead of just relying on its broken pieces. And soon his body was among the veterans as they reaped hard earned scraps, as he tore into their furred hides with sharpened blades and claws, bringing back extra to be eaten, and additionally bringing him more materials to work with. 

Though the Bouncers found his designs to be… the work of a fledgling that had yet to realize his true strength, the Foragers were more than happy to use his new equipment. Veyolkos at first believed he could create a new career, here in Wyrm's Furnace. As much as he enjoyed gathering, he couldn't help but feel it would be wasted potential. While others saw shapes and landmarks, he saw patterns. Patterns that could be manipulated and made into something new. For his siblings he created shields of bone and hide, to protect their sides once they were applied. When they went off to hunt, they wouldn't be as scathed by a predator's blows, but they did return with the armor mangled and torn. Which only incentivised him to cure leather and toughen the hide at his disposal.

But at two years of age, all his planning and testing was interrupted by his mother. His mother saw his tinkering not as the work of a brilliant mind or an opportunistic artist, but a soul yearning for conflict. Wolves and Elk wouldn't cut it, no, he'd need bigger prey. She told him that since he could fly with expertise now, that he must return home with magically gifted prey. Veyolkos was mortified at first, for he had heard his mother's stories of those beasts beyond in the Old Pines and Evergrowth. But before he went out, he asked her to let him prepare for it. She accepted, and for 2 months he fastened himself a suit of leather, bone, and took from an abandoned den, a worn out and torn chest piece of steel to make as a helm. And so he went out on his hunt, soaring through the skies in ragged armor. There amidst stormy skies he scoured, the pelts of his armor keeping him protected from the bite of winter's wind. 

The storm he flew into made it so visibility was low, but amidst the flurry he caught sight of a fire deep in a cave. He perched outside of it, resting atop the mouth of the cave, as he let himself lay low and hid beneath the white blanket of the precipitation. There he saw a lone man, decorated in bear furs moving back to the cave, unaware of the danger lurking above his own refuge. He had heard of Shamanic Werebears, and wondered if though not the largest kill to make, if it would draw the praise of his roost. This was his first magibeast to down, not fed to him in shreds from the mouth of an elder or his mother.As soon as the shaman passed under the roof of the cave Veyolkos shot forward like a panther leaping towards a bird in flight. His body contorted, facing the man as the man instinctively entered his Ursine state. The two collided, bouncing into the cave as both tried to land their jaws on the throat of the other. But Veyolkos’s face spears became too difficult to navigate around, and so the Ursine departed, bleeding from his chest and arms, and tried to find a new way to attack this armored Laitivern. Veyolkos would look around, to find that indeed, Laitivern scales were used in the making of spears and axes. He snapped his jaws as the Ursine tried to rush for his flank, only to pull away, revealing that hidden along their neck was the teeth of bear, wolf, raptor… Laitivern. This Shaman most likely had experience, and knowing killing a slayer like him could prove dangerous to his people, he immediately went to flee, only to feel the Ursine crash into him and knock him over, immediately trying to go for his chest, yet seemed somewhat stunned when his claws only struck hide and stone. Which he had still torn apart, but had not reached the vitals of the Laitivern. Taking advantage of the situation, Veyolkos slapped the Ursine onto its back, and flipping himself up with cat-like agility. He plunged his head spears into the Ursine Man’s side and continued the fight, as the bear man clawed away at his face only for Veyolkos to plunge his spears deeper into the shaman. The struggle was long and brutal, Veyolkos withdrawing only after the Ursine stopped swiping away with their claws. His own face was a bloody mess, but beyond the blood flowing down his eyes, he was able to see the man’s bag. Torn up during their brawl, he noticed its contents included a long scroll, made from the skin of a seal. He nabbed it and the man’s body, flying off with his catch.

He returned to his mother and the elders, presenting his kill as he panted, before showing off his armor. He harshly dropped the shaman before their feet, before ripping a chunk out of the Ursine’s flesh, harshly gulping down the pelt and viscera. He couldn't hear anything they said, but he assumed he had pleased them. He climbed to the top of the Qyrm's Furnace, and took to studying the runes engraved onto the pelt, occupied only by the howl of the wind.

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            Laitivern mature rapidly at a young age, then it slowly peters out once they reach twelve years of age. As sub-adults they are not yet old enough to court or start their own clutch, but they can hunt amongst one another with some independence. Veyolkos had decided to flip flop between the Forager groups and Mach'dala. Amongst his siblings he was an alien, they adhered to the ways of old. And so he was most regarded not as a pack mate, but a tag-along. And so on their hunts he'd disappear for a time, since they wanted nothing to do with his inventions. But that was fine for Veyolkos. He'd begun smiting since he was seven, and had outfitted his talons with claws befitting a king. Silver he had learned, had some properties that could protect him from the surge of energy his prey usually outputted. Mystical stags he'd search for, not awake. For their speed was so frighteningly swift he could never keep up. When he found such prey he'd make sure they were sleeping. Sometimes he'd silently move in and pin the magibeast down, eating them alive. Other times he just found it easier to grab a large chunk of ice or a boulder to drop on them and concuss them. Before taking his talons to their throat. Should he find the campsites of hunters, he'd make sure none were around before taking any armor or artifacts they possessed as novelties to research. Most treasured to him was literature,for even power fantasies where the author obviously transposed himself into his work he found utterly fascinating. His favorite thing to catch he had created a pulley system just to harpoon the beast: The Frost Serpent. He had found their hide was too sharp and smooth to gain purchase with talons, and they moved so quickly that it would be a miracle to catch their giant eyes to rangle the beast. So Veyolkos had learned to harpoon them as soon as possible, and cranking the pulley could effectively keep one in place and slowly drag it to be butchered. His siblings called it cheating and barbaric. He called it an opportunity, for their sharp scales and fangs made for excellent blades and armor scaling.

         Among his foraging kin he'd fashion them nets, should everyone be feeling more in the need for fish and seal. And he'd create great traps to capture Elnüks. The Foragers also noted how he often searched for herbs when they were available, and whatever food they had he would use them on the meat. At first they found it strange to add greens to their carrion, but when cooked, or he put it in a stone pot he had made and boiled them together, opinions changed quickly. He was always fast on the wing, and that made him exceptionally good at catching the more mundane prey.  And they knew for a fact he would hunt the yetis that marched around their territory, plucking them straight from the sky only to drop them to the earth, like an eagle does with a tortoise. 

          Though his most macabre behavior of butchery. Impaling his prey to the trees and their branches, so that he could take his claws and remove their hides, and cut their flanks. He had made a basket specifically for this act, and he'd return with the cut pieces and prepare it for whoever was willing to eat from his kills. Sometimes he'd return with the helm of a Frostguard, other times the necklace of the Ursine, and rarely the weapons of the Winter's Claw.  To the Laitivern he was still Veyolkos, but he had heard himself spoken about in times where he lurked in the shadows outside of man's fire glow… as The Windrazor. Veyolkos appreciated the name, and on his 14th year decided that his title should be just that: The Windrazor.

Naturally though as tensions rised in the Freljord, with the coming of the Dominion and the Walled Settlements of the Avarosans, hunts were now far more stressful. Especially now that Wyrm's Furnace was repeatedly being raided by Tribal Yordle, Trolls, and Slayers of The Winter's Claw. To kill a Laitiverns had always been a statement to one's hunting prowess, but their sharp scales and strong hide made for excellent armor and weapon crafting. The Bouncers were strong folk, but they were being overrun. As some bouncers fell after raid after raid, and The Mach'dala themselves would fall,  Veyolkos stopped his hunts, and stayed behind to watch over his kin's ancestral site, ready to prove himself capable of protecting their roost. He took to what resources he had, and through convincing, equipped the remaining Bouncers In Armor, protecting their faces and chest, yet still allowing them to shoot their scales out at the enemy. He asked upon the Carvers to find fine stone deep within Wyrm's Furnace, and bring it to him. There he'd teach them, including his own father, to make blades for the tails of The Bouncers, and these blue, steel-shining great blades were so refined in quality that they could take down scores of men, and even without their cutting edge the weight alone could crush a troll's skull. 

He rallied the foragers and equipped them in shields that protected their flanks, and branded their heads with metal spears and their chest with plates made of thick hides and stone. They would go out there to scout first the whereabouts of these hunters, using the cover of night and thunderstorm to determine exactly how these raiders planned to take them. Mach’dala and Bouncers occupied any forces coming from their east and north, while they determined the best possible way to strike. Veyolkos also searched out the Vellox tribes that wandered near their territory, and communed with Yetis. He raised to them teh cruelty they had been experiencing, and how together, they could not only protect Wyrm’s Furnace, but all those in the freljord. He was no longer just trying to protect the Laitiverns, he was amassing an army to do so. He asked his siblings and mother to aid him in such encounters, and at first confused and just going along, they had not the slightest idea why? Only to see Vellox cowering and Yetis lowering their ice clubs in their presence, as Veyolkos spoke with haunting authority, though the other Mach’dala could not discern what he was saying. They would bow to each other, and then the non-laitiverns would leave. Only for Veyolkos to tell them each time:

“Numbers make us look professional. A mad Laitivern rambling does not hold the same power unless occupied by his kin. Especially if he speaks their tongue.”

He would soon talk with the Oldsouls his next set of plans, to continue teaching the carvers how to sculpt armor, and to carve out more dens for the new alliances.. The Oldsouls at first seemed offended by the preposition. They lambasted him for getting distracted. He had always needlessly complicated everything with redundancy and risks. At first Veyolkos let them ramble on, insulting his plans and his reliance on historical enemies, and his cruel affection towards melting metal to crudely reshape it. He then snickered after they had their say, and wandered back to his den. But not without departing to them some words, his tone callous,

“I was not asking for permission, I was letting you know.”

Continuously during their scouting, Veyolkos would plunge deeper past their territories to find covens in the moonlight, gliding silently to learn of their language, and their magics. For his many years with the scroll of his first kill, it had yet to dawn on him what it could mean. But as he had gotten older, he had gotten wiser, and more keen to meaning and interpretation. And understanding the magics their enemies often used was part of the battle. Know the enemy, more than they know you. And as he grew to understand the runic languages, he’d return back to the roost. He would make sure armor was being made, weapons being carved, food being prepared and stored. He’d have the foragers learn to create new tonics and wrappings to aid the bouncers, and then he’d retreat to his den. Only to take the scroll out and reach the highest peak to study the writing. The humans were obsessed with things beyond them. They shared that, and yet as he came to rehearse the incantations, he understood the nature of the scrolls. To shape into something else. To shape into another form of beast. He held in this information, and seeing what needed to be done, he tucked it away into his den. And prepared for conflict. Afterall, blood was to be spilled.

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It turned out a large group of mercenaries, slayers, and soldiers of the Winter’s Claw had made their trek to Wyrm’s Furnace to finally get the materials needed for their employers or clan. War is, in part, a business, and buyers have strict schedules and due dates. As they ventured towards Wyrm’s Furnace, they noted how quiet it was. The Freljord could be isolating and haunting, but even here the wind seemed only distant. And as they reached the edge of the treeline heading towards the clearing, four of them took a step too far to the right, and were suddenly plunged straight into the earth. Looking down at their comrades, all they found was the four impaled on spikes of carved cedar, bleeding out as they stared down at the bottom of the pit. As if on cue, bolts were fired at the encroaching band of hunters and mercenaries. Many mages put up barriers for them and their crew as they ran past the treeline, shields raised for those who did not have arcane energies protecting them. But the bolts had come high from the peaks, before a new wave set upon the encroaching men. These bolts were massive, more akin to ballista as they descended down, taking a seventeen more of the hunters, limiting their numbers. As they saw no Laitivern in the sky, many shouted for their fellow man to take cover, as they rushed for the massive jutting stones that surrounded the mountain. Many took bows or muskets and fired up where the shots were coming from, hoping to score some blows.

Then they heard something coming from where the Laitiverns roosted. An eerie, discordant hymn, and it felt like those at the base of the mountain were no longer alone. They all felt it: something has gone deeply and irreversibly wrong… and they needed to start running. As soon as they were going to reposition, they heard screeching as a great pack of raptors descended upon them. With the beasts’ strong back legs and jagged bills, a few more mercs fell before the raptors were ignited by the magics of the mage or the molten lead of muskets. And yet the raptors stayed firm, dragging people out into the opening clearing. Some of those people dragged out were able to down the beast with spears and axes, and as soon as they stood up to seek cover, they were pelted with boulders. Attacking the hunters now were Yetis, roaring and beating their chest as they grabbed clubs and warpaddles before charging in. Some of them, the smaller white haired primates, fell, but the elders stayed strong and crashed into their flank. 

Retreating up, they soon were beset upon by Vellox, whose snow leopard print helped them camouflage into the mountain, as their human faces suddenly bared saber fangs as robust monstrous winged arms threw them towards the hunters, tussling with them as they scrapped on the steps of the Laitivern’s roosting site. Weapons striked against flesh with the same ferocity of claws and fangs sundering armor. The Vellox had ways to avoid a direct engagement, with some departing to blow onto their foes winter’s cold embrace, freezing them in place. Yet still Vellox would fall, but as they did the Raptors and Yetis charged from behind, hoping to take the hunter’s down with them if they could. And the hymn above became not some eerie whisper, but a chaotic cacophony being blown through the horn of a ram. Before a Vellox would climb onto a rock and chant, and as she began her most terrifying dirge, the roost erupted with the sound of metal and flapping wings.

The chaos that ensued was swift and brutal, as the Laitiverns defended their ancestral site with an unmatched ferocity. The hunters and mercenaries found themselves vastly outnumbered and overwhelmed as descending onto the group like a horde of wasps were the Laitiverns they had come to hunt. Many bolted for the treeline, running as the Laitivern’s armor blocked their shots, and they threw themselves towards the mages, dragging them away as more of their kin flew ahead of the humans, claws lowering as they lifted the men into the heavens, tearing them apart as they took the remains back to the roost. The ground shook beneath the clashing forces, and the air was filled with the sounds of battle cries, roars, and the piercing screeches of the Laitiverns. Many of those from The Winter’s Claw stood their ground, and those slayers were able to counter the aerial dives of the Laitiverns. Yet they didn’t expect to suddenly be confronted by the heavily armored form of Laitivern Bouncers, Yetis, and Vellox barreling down the mountain towards them. Nor the synchronized volleys of scales being thrown at them. 

Veyolkos had expected a larger group, and though mildly disappointed at only two hundred something men, it made his job way easier. He soared through the sky, leading the foragers and his siblings in a coordinated attack. He darted through the air like a dark shadow, shedding his scales like a storm of glinting blades to lacerate and weaken their forces, before with the cold calculation and agility of a falcon in the dive to strike with deadly precision. And when he noted the flank they were striking was in disarray, he lunged for a sorceress clinging behind a rock for cover. He dived down again, tucking in his wings as he descended from a great height towards her. He angled himself to the side and spread out his wings, coasting down towards her with talons outstretched, seeing the hunter witch’s eyes widen as his talons enveloped her chest. As he nabbed her he flew towards the center of combat, letting loose a series of Styg projectiles onto the enemy to scatter their forces. It wouldn’t be long now till they either broke, or were devoured. So as he applied crushing pressure to her ribs within his grasp, he had to act quickly. He flew behind many a peak to hide his position, as he landed on his perch for which he had titled his study, harshly throwing her down.

He grabbed his scroll, and as he set the stone down on the edges of the scroll, she began to scream at him, of course. She had expected to hunt creatures a little above yetis in wit, not, whatever this armored beast was.

“What!? What the fuck are you planning?!”

He scoffed at her, making sure the seal skin scroll was secure as he turned to face her with a look of not pride nor indifference, but the look of a tiger caught stalking its quarry.

“The intellect I have can be gifted unto another. I refuse to see my society surrounded by witless animals.”

Now was her turn to scoff, as she leered at him with a mocking tone.

“Awwww… golden boy feels he’s wasted on chewing bones with the rest of his packmates-”

He slammed his bladed tail onto her with a sudden harshness, the woman hacking and wheezing as she felt her body crumple from the strike, as he approached her with way too much a casual stride, as he picked her up with his wing claws.

“Though river streams and hills grow steeper, man grows a little more shallow. What right do you have to try and belittle me, witless tool? You have come to slay, and now are to be slain. At least your death will merit some greater use!”

She squirmed in his hold, as he held her over the paper, the Laitivern chanting as she screamed for him to let go, a spell loading within her palm to smite the Laitivern. Veyolkos could see the runes begin to glow in her presence, and so he raised his other wing talon, aiming it at her neck, knowing to make it quick-

“I will give you the taste of the beast that you see in me!"

And in a sudden slicing movement she felt skin tear, then muscle, then a tingling warm pooling before her consciousness fled. And she coughed, though as her blood fell onto the scroll, and as it did she too began to fade, though slightly, as color fled from her skin and hair, her body a dull gray wash as the luminance from the pages poured into his chest. The new rush of energy was paralyzing at first, as he stumbled back, her form turning into mere ashes as they blew over his scales, branding his face in white stripes that ran down his nostril and under his eyes, branding some of the patterning in his wings. When he could finally move, he heard Yetis howling, Vellox roaring, and Laitivern’s trilling. He soon flew back to the scene below, as the many parties feasted on those who decided to experience a warrior's death. Veyolkos landed before them, breathing heavily from the exertion of the ritual. They seemed oblivious to what he had done, assuming him to have just been pursuing the marauders. 

To his surprise, the Oldsouls and the Elders approached The Windrazor, their demeanor now changed. They had witnessed the rewards of his planning, and wordlessly bowed to him. He was dumbstruck by the wordless praise he had received. One of respect. His mother and father, having been in the fight, showed their throat to him, the highest level of trust and respect a laitivern could receive. He began to fidget in place, before broadening out his wings, and roaring to the crown a decree. A promise.

“THIS! THIS MARKS THE BEGINNING! TO AN AGE OF BEASTS!”

For now he had the skills gained to understand his enemy… far more intimately than before.

Veyolkos Kit:

Passive-Volatile Coating: The more damage he takes from Epic Monsters, Dragons, or Enemy Champs, the more his energy bar is filled. Once filled Veyolkos can charge his next attacks with draconic energy with increased movement speed for 3 seconds

Q - Voltaic Lunge: Veyolkos lunges towards a targeted location, knocking back any enemy champion or minion he collides with. Upon impact, a searing energy mark is left on the target, dealing physical damage.

W - Thousand Blades: Veyolkos sheds part of his armor for a brief moment, sending shards flying outward in all directions. These shimmering shards damage any enemy champions and minions they hit.

E - Evasive Maneuvers: With lightning speed, Veyolkos rapidly dashes away while releasing Styg energy forward, dealing additional searing damage if performed up close. From a distance, the Styg inflicts minor physical damage.

Ultimate - Flight of The Razorwing: Veyolkos takes to the skies, gaining enhanced mobility. During this time, his abilities undergo changes:

Voltaic Lunge becomes Thunderous Grapple, allowing him to tackle and immobilize a single enemy champion.

Thousand Blades transform into Draconic Cleave, a 360-degree tail swipe that damages all nearby enemies.

Evasive Maneuvers evolves into Laitivern's Dive, granting Veyolkos an arching leap with a powerful energy blast upon landing.

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Aighty so physically he's gone like over... several hundred iterations. What remains consistent is the general build of Seregios, from the sharp scales, wing walking, and face. While also incorporating the more panthurine movement and tail slams of Nargacuga.

He's also gone through like several hundred actual redesigns, and while he started as just that: A flying wyvern capable of speech, he did evolve more into an analog to Throgg. And while Trundle is a legitimate troll king and is pretty sick, he more or less serves as a modestly competent himbo in a alliance with Lissandra. Veyolkos fills the roll of a cunning beast going through great lengths to ensure he has the means to play his cards correctly. He likes to innovate, he likes to build, but most importantly he likes to share that knowledge to elevate his people. But he also understands the sinister nature of his action, and how it spawned partially from necessity, but mostly through curiosity.

The Hermitverse is full of odd entities, but among them are Extraterrestrials.

Extraterrestrials generally do not have any stakes in the affairs of earth. Most contact with Extraterrestrials has been either explorers or accidental collisions. There are at times however, times where roaming bands of pirates and poachers from beyond the stars do, in fact, meddle with humans.

The Sentinels: Point of First Contact is Unknown, but they were first confirmed in 3000 BCE. They seem to wuite literally be intelligent metals that use electric charges as substance and communication. They seem to have multiple forms, but the tallest and most prominent is the "Fallen Angel," with smaller single ocular forms known as "Cherubs," having a more Cephalopod-like appearance.

The Aeroprisk: Confirmed First Contact in the 1830s, they are composed of silica-like compounds and have a texture akin to graphite. They are well known in their martial prowess and seem to possess intense psionic properties. Aeroprisk were originally believed to have been dimensional hoppers, but this wad disproven after their home system was found on satellite imaging.

Faltwu: Confirmed First Contact is 1952. Famous for the Flatwoods incident. They are intelligent plasma-forms that create carbon shells to interact with other forms of life. While they first arrived on accident, subsequent specimens have been documented crwating research facilities. Can somehow hybridize with carbon life.

Frelma: Confirmed First Contact is 1961, and their appearance was conflated by conspiracist to be in relation to Roswell. Mesothermic synapsids,seemingly amphibious with soft water retenting skin. They have come to earth for "business", aka human organ trafficking. Most unpredictable alien to date, and most widely sighted.

"Celestidactyl": First depicted 20,000 BCE. Void faring entities running off of nuclear fission. They are collosal size, smallest documented was an infant at 13 feet long and 12000 lbs. Wholly nomadic, multiple cultures have been documented, yet only two were hostile. They are mostly passing observers, though the hostile specimens encountered proved cpaapble of outmaneuvering any terran craft.

Atlants: Point of First Contact is unknown, first documented in 3000 BCE. Carbon-based, posessing both an exoskeleton and endoskeleton, described as either having a stickbug-like gait or a "delayed gallop." They use living organisms as tools for every day to day life. Views Earth as a reservoir, though some specimens have been labeled as "poachers."

Mad Hunters: First Contact speculated 1846. ".Carbon-based organisms, capapbel of undulating their body to move on land. Seemingly evolved from aquatic stock. Non-verbal communication almost explicitly. Earth is a hunting ground, done in the name of "ritual." All technology in possession is seemingly textile and pheromone based.

"There is a small house south of Kettlewood. It lies at the south most corner of the St.Francois Mountains, resting nicely in a nestled patch of forest. The trees leading up to the property do a great job obscuring it from view, but gives it a wide scenic display of the Ozark town below from Sauk Lake towards the little Glimmer of the Highway. The house itself was of craftsman make, with a sharp pitched roof that led to wide eaves, and its two stories were made entirely of timber painted white. The second story had three windows facing the stone driveway, and within view of the Westmost window was a boy. 

Strawberry blonde and with angelic curls, he hid his face behind a plush owl, holding it against his cheek as if afraid, even in his sleep, it would fly away and never return. Perhaps he had drifted off watching the lights of the distant town and highway. Maybe that's what brought him fear, in some child-like imagination he had perceived some threat lurking out there. Maybe a shadow passed by that cowered the lights: a break in the distant luminance of headlights and the concentrated urban glow. So he hid under green sheets, too scared to tell the others in the house the feelings weighing his chest down and stilling his legs.

But despite his fears, he knew this home was safe. For why else, though spooked, did he deem it safe enough to rest, without closing the blinds? Maybe he just found it safer to have some light shine in, than face the pitch-black. Faint moonlight illuminated him as it broke through the trees, almost as if the world acknowledged him trying to shrink in on himself. And yet the little plush barn owl did everything in its power to shield him from the light above.

Outside the world was vocal, for this late spring had now heralded crickets and katydids venerating the rains earlier and the promise of warmer afternoons. An old bloodhound, whose muzzle was now given a silver sheen, rested on the porch. In its youth it would have explored in the darker hours before returning around 9 pm, unless he had been called in otherwise. Chasing off coyotes from even the scent of the chickens and quail the man of the house raised. Or skulking around the trees looking for possums to spook. Now he was too old to leap over logs mid chase or turn to defend his haunches from an equally annoyed raccoon's bite. He could run up to a truck after it had recently parked, crawl into his owners' laps, and steal an unattended porkchop from the table.

Now, laying down next to his dog bed he stared out at the night, his vision not as sharp as it used to be, but his nose was still sharp enough to make out any poor critter trying to sneak by. It could be a fair distance, he could smell them 3 miles down the road, on a good day with the wind on his face, he could get a good fragrance range of the valley below. So it did rattle the dog when he could smell something coming up the road. And for the life of him he couldn't remember a scent like this. There was something like a horse, sulfur, and wet rain. Yet there was a new scent it just couldn't identify. Like club soda but… way way stronger. The bloodhound covered its nose and whined, exhaling as though he was trying to involuntarily cough.

As the smell got closer, the bloodhound got up, walking down the wooden steps of the porch and towards the dirt road, staying on the stone and grass of his owners' domain, knowing too well how reckless drivers could be on these dirt roads in these dark midnight hours. He smells it, and as he does he hears something rustle above him in the trees. To the bloodhound in that moment, they just resembled obscured, somewhat flat shapes running through the trees. And stopping where the branches hung over the road. They made no motions towards him, and when he turned back around to face the end of the road, he heard a sharp whistle, and could see a faint glow of blue in the woods below.

The dog was in no state to leave the yard and chase after the glow, and some primordial part of its brain told it to run back to the house. It started at a fast walk, whatever was in the trees above him following along when he suddenly jumped at the sound of something collapsing onto the dirt road with an audible thud, sending rocks in a scattered wake. He started to pant, a growl welling in his chest as he observed something that looked like an intruder. Even amidst the night this figure was pitch black, sulking in any light around it minus the white, piercing, vertical slits in place of eyes it possessed. It was riding something, a horse of some kind. Though it seemed to be made of a similar shadowy Ether that constricted itself to a horse's frame. However its face possessed no lower jaw, and many smaller tentacles. The Hound didn't even consider the massive wound on the collapsed steed, that was literally eating away at its body as though individual polygons were being erased from reality. The chorus of the night had gone silent, and as the steed writhed against somewhat red clay hued pebbles, its rider shakily left its back, and crawled its way over to the dog. 

Panic. Raw, inexorable. The dog unconsciously whined, tail between its legs as it scampered backwards, bumping into the truck as it tried to step back away from the crawling hominid. The shadows of its head were too sharp, too angular, as its face came out like a shallow curve. Its neck was thick, attached to a bird-like chest which spouted gangly thin limbs from sloping shoulders. It made no noise as it tried to clamber to the dog, whose own claws scraped against the ground as meager rasps for barks exhumed from its quivering face. 

That's when the shadow before him was dragged back, as those strange flat things from the trees had tried to drag the creature away. They resembled well, the odd bastardization of a colugo and a bird of prey. It's sharp-billed, flat-head nipped at the feet of the shadow. It writhed and attempted to sway back. The Carpet Birds with long, slender front and rear limbs that possessed a large membrane of skin that extended between their paired limbs, rolled and awkwardly waddled away from the shadow, hissing like angry barn cats as if to catch the crawler's attention. The dog made a stiff jog away, but no sooner did it that the Carpet Birds scuttled away from the shadow as well. The Bloodhound turned back to face the attacker, confident enough to start barking at the figure. Before its eyes shot wide and it tucked itself low to the ground.

Holding the shadow above the ground was a being carved from some abstract paradigm. The shadow writhed in its touch, clawing at its basalt carved form. It wad like the odd perversion of a torso, a floating triangular shield where a head would be. Instead a row or six lights around the collar focused on the shadow, each glowing a lightning blue. Intricate carvings moved from its body to its limbs, long and skeletal, mechanical, carved. The hand of this entity, crushed the neck of the shadow, sending a strange blue light into its ephemeral inky form, and sending the aberration to flicker out of existence just like its steed. The standing construct looked down at the bloodhound, upon stilt legs mirroring stakes, as the dog practically went limp at the sight. The air felt like static, the being before it thumming with something undeniably alive, but not in the traditional sense. It simply began to walk away, the truck audibly unlocking and locking in rapid succession, before disappearing behind the curve of the greenery and down the road. 

The Bloodhound waited till the springing motion of its locomotion could no longer be heard before it ran to the door and scratched against it, whining. It was frantic, and given with such force that the hinges sounded like they might possibly break, as the dog called upon some forgotten strength it never knew it possessed. Opening the door, shotgun in hand, an old man wearing full body gray pajamas opened the door, looking around for any possible varmint or intruder. His sourpuss face, wrinkled and filled with utter annoyance, scanned the yard with his flashlight. Nothing stood out to him, except when he panned the flashlight down to his whining mutt, looking up at him with pleading eyes. The dog wasn't easy to spook, having lived through several feral dog attacks and having aided the man in boar hunts earlier in the two's shared time together. So the old timer moved to the side, as his companion ran inside and up the stairs of the home, claws tapping against wooden boards.

For the Remaining five years of the Bloodhound's life, he slept indoors at the feet of the boy facing the westmost window. It was safer inside during the night. "

I admittedly had the hardest time getting into the hive. To me it wasn't anything particularly new. Tropey and without exploration of anything deeper. Than fucking Oryx in the Taken King came out, and by god that changed my view. These savage insectoid marauders who love violence because it keeps them going, and how their greatest gods could replace people with superior, weaponized versions of themselves in life. Then came Savathun, and the tragedy of her species became realized. Pawns to an intimately twisted pact made out of the desperate grief of three frail siblings. And despite the witch queen's change of heart towards the traveler, the antithesis to the darkness, she still could only demonstrate cruelty and relentless slaughter. Xivu Arath herself is now some grieving, mad god serving the witness after the death of her most loved brother, and the betrayal of her sister.

Since I have covered eliksni/scorn, cabal, and vex(yet to be released), it would be unfair to leave them out. So, taking a throwaway name in the current Runeterra lore, I created a story mirroring the rise of Xivu Arath, Oryx, and Savathun, enjoy! ----

The word "Raylu", in the ancient tongue of the Vastayan… meant carnivorous or ever smiling. And for as long as the standing empires have known, they Vaylu were always ravenous creatures of the open seas and the deep below. Synonymous with death, synonymous with war, synonymous with deception. Yet as is for all life, it wasn't always this way. It is never so simple as to be born cruel. The Vaylu after all we're not demons, born from the ire of life. They were a people, found below the tumultuous sea along the continental shelves, where the light penetrates the surface of the waves and finds itself opaque

          This enigmatic species of Vastayan, resembling their maria cousins, though with armored arms, legs, head, and a blade-like telson. Even at their time, they looked ancient, perfectly suited for a life of hardship. For indeed existence was harsh for the Raylu. Their Ocean had become stained with magics, and the skies above their home were eternally stormy: as rain fell sharp into the waves and lightning had enough power to vaporize anyone it struck. Great Fish and Beasts would prey on the populace, and for a time the Raylu frequently warred with each other. Yet for a century peace reigned, and in this there was a Raylu born named Sünalt, whose journey would shape the fate of her people forever.

In this time she learned to be cunning, fixing up traps to snare prey, and most importantly, who to tell was friend or foe. Not every Raylu she encountered was an ally, and not every Marai found was kind. But not every human crossing overhead was without use. She learned the most valuable aspect of cunning:

Observation.

            Sünalt spent her days observing the comings and goings of the creatures that roamed the ocean depths. She would watch from the shadows as schools of fish danced in intricate patterns, evading the hungry jaws of greater beasts. She marveled at the way the Marai moved with grace, their bioluminescent markings lighting up the dark waters and their flowing fins like the gowns of a dress. She even observed the humans from afar, studying their technology and their creeds. She developed a talent for blending in with her environment, mastering the art of deception and camouflage. As she reached adulthood, her skills had surpassed those of her peers, and soon many seeked her as a sort of guide. She played up to it, claiming she accessed forces deeper than what could be felt or seen. That great serpents below the plates of the earth slumbered, and whispered into her ear what was to them, petty trivia. The Raylu could believe it, stranger things did occur, and her estimations and instructions always seemed to be on point.

She learned being able to read people and patterns was a step above magic. It gave her certainty, where spells could falter, people rarely changed their character.

With each passing day, Sünalt's curiosity and thirst for knowledge grew. She sought to understand the balance of the ocean, the ebb and flow of life, and the intricate connections between the different species. Her elders warned her against meddling in the affairs of others, but Sünalt couldn't help herself. She yearned to explore the world beyond the murky depths of her home. The stories of creatures above the surface, of the vast lands, and the strange beings that roamed there intrigued her. She longed to see the surface and uncover its secrets. She knew that the world above was full of dangers, just like the ocean's depths, but she also believed that there must be opportunities for her people to thrive beyond their current circumstances. She wanted to learn, to adapt, to survive. 

Existence couldn't just be the struggle to exist.

          And yet the fates soon came to reinforce this belief, forher people would be attacked within their very waking minds. A few of their own mages, especially those most esteemed, had terrible  visions of a cataclysm. Of a Runeterra that would devour itself alive from within the deep. For below them, disaster existed. These visions were palpable, utterly maddening and exhausting. It's as if the words themselves were a viral code, and upon recognizing the cataclysm the will to care. It all returned in their visions to what they perceived to be a barren sea bar, baking under a now blood red sun. When many came to look for Sünalt, they instead found her missing. She was hiding, and she remained still as they prattled on about this end that had overcome their people. She had seated herself into a position of otherworldly wisdom, and so now that all other sources of knowledge had been debilitated, they seeked her. 

The tale was exceptionally spur to her tongue, and at first she was puzzled. Unwilling to let herself see it as the end, she constantly called it by a new moniker: "The Next Shape". One stormy night, when the lightning arced across the sky with wild abandon, and the waves crashed against the Raylu's underwater home, Sünalt had come to a conclusion. She gathered her most trusted companions, those she knew she could rely on, and shared her vision with them. That the mages were only seeing part of a greater prophecy, and that to see how to avoid annihilation, they would have to cross Shurima to their destination. She proposed she lead an expedition to the surface world, and there they will see how all will fall into place. Many were skeptical, fearing the dangers that awaited them, but Sünalt's charisma and her undeniable intelligence swayed them to her side. 

Her crew comprised mostly of her best friends. Among them was the most sheltered of them, Heshstar, a warrior who had seen no battle. Xez'Karo, who hid her form in a cloak so none may see her frailty. Kronut, the youngest and shyest of the mages. But then came Ahtal'Xul, her detractor, a survivalist who more so just wished to die on the trip to find something of his caliber. He cared little for the prophecy, being among the oldest he saw Sünalt's rise among her peers. And viewed the journey as just a way for her to abandon ship.

Which was not entirely untrue.

           Though the group was by no means a legion, the madness and fatigue overwhelming their people was sure enough cause to at least push forward, and they began their ascent towards the surface. The journey was perilous, facing fierce currents and powerful sea creatures, but Sünalt's wit and tenacity saw them through. It was a perilous swim, but as they broke the surface of coastal waves, the world above greeted them with blinding sunlight and open skies. For the first time in their lives, they saw the vast expanse of the world beyond the ocean's edge. Now came the hard part: Voyaging onto land.

Sünalt pointed to the many life available to their disposal, and suggested that she create them suits of flesh and carapace from the coastal life. And so they hunted and slaughtered crustacean, mollusk, and pulled from the sands many flora in which Sünalt, having experienced similar organisms, began to shape.  She filled the interior with absorbent plants. And as they put the suits on in the water, it seemed like the flora had found purchase on their carrion gear, and kept their skin wet. From there they trekked inwards into a brave, new world.

         The surface world was vastly different from the depths of the ocean they called home. The lack of movement they had now, and the lack of a blanketing pressure beyond that of the corpse armor on their bodies, was alien. The light was so bright, and it was an issue they had barely been able to adapt to in the shallows. Many nights they slept in shallow pools along the flowing rivers of the coastal rainforest. And in those many nights, the dreams had come to them now. Now they were clearer than what the mages had detailed. And now Sünalt was confronted by them. 

And they were giving her answers. They spoke to her now as an infinite plane of sand,which she stumbled through with little strength. She was alone, amidst a sea of voices of dust.

"Most cunning of her kin, you seek to end cataclysm?"

"There is no other option, I take the visions as death, they become death. And my kin will die."

"Then, the most cunning of her kin, do not venture to the sands. Venture to the wastes, where we may grant you power to avoid dying."

"But the Waste… we've heard of those lands. The void will devour us."

"Then wear our mark… and they will ignore you. But it's cultists are sharp tongued and spear-fanged. Kill them, should you see them. Blood is necessary to spill, for you and your friends to grow."

          The mark was of a Pyramid, with a crowned rhombus bearing 3 circles below the crown as if eyes. If was the old mark of her kin's ancestral kingdoms, those warring hordes and courts. As soon as she realized this, Sünalt awoke with a startle, and could not sleep. She remembered the symbol, it was hard not to. It was hard not to remember their words. So she went to the river and looked for the finest mud. The freshwater made her feel heavy, and tired. And the flowing water seemed only to make her catigue grow. So she took from a stick and dragged great swathes of it to shore. It dried on the stick and created a fine white chalk… the perfect marking clay. And she painted the symbol onto her friend's foreheads, even the most bitter Ahtal'Xul. Though it would be Heshstar and Kronut who would debate with her. Heshstar did not like being marked, even for his own good, and was made aware that she had used the old sigil upon his crown. Kronut instead debated if these were just self fulfilling prophecies. For his clarity saw them voyage to jagged rocks now, instead of endless sands. Sünalt however, lightened up at the mentioning of the sharp rocks, and told them that the marks were indeed to keep them safe, for salvation was locked behind the borders of the Wastelands. And that "her trusted friends" told her how. He asked them if they were the Leviathans, like Nagadilotep, she tried so deseperately to appease to. And she claimed they were older, wiser, and unlike the leviathans… very much alive.

And that they had tols her to seek Icathia.

            And so, the group of intrepid Raylu adventurers ventured forth from the coastal jungle, following the freshwater tillit dried, and the earth had the hue of wet ash. Sünalt led the way, her keen guiding them through the unforgiving landscapes of torn rock and infected crust. As they delved deeper into the Wastelands, they noted hoe much drier it was, and for many like Xez'Karo, it was suffocating. Sünalt and Heshstar eventually found safety under a peak, rainwater seemingly brought forth by the seas had soaked the stones created a wet, cold cave below its jaggrd peaks. Sünalt's fatigue was obvious, and she went to rest as soon as hwr shoulder founs purchase against the cave wall.

She was given yet another vision, and this time, in the vision, all her friends and Ahtal'Xul were present, and the voices told them they would send them several followers of the void, and pit them against the frail, exhausted Vaylu. Their rewards for winning, would outshine the rewards for the followers. 

To save the world, a blade was required.

          As they woke up they saw people in robes approaching the cave, the moon unable to pierce the thick clouds of the night. But a time among the deep had given them incredible sight, and as they figured entered their color-periphery, their features were more discernable. The lilac-robed figures emerged from the darkness, their movements eerie and unsettling. Their faces were obscured by hoods, and they seemed almost ethereal as they glided closer to the Raylu group. Sünalt's heart pounded in her chest, but she knew that hesitation would only lead to more trouble. She noticed the glint of metal concealed beneath their robes—a telltale sign of their intent. She needed to act quickly. 

As the Lilac-robed figures drew nearer, Sünalt stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of a blade sheathed at her side. She greeted the strangers with an air of authority, her other hand outstretched towards them as if to warn them not to move any closer.

"Halt! State your purpose in the Hollowed Lands."

The Lilac followers hesitated, seemingly taken aback by Sünalt's boldness. Barring one, a woman of robust build, who spoke to Sünalt in a soft, hissing voice.

"We come in search of those who seek salvation, Are you one of them?"

Sünalt grinned, motioning with her tail  to the others in the cave that this, this was the moment they had been warned of. Sünalt addressed the cultist yet again, her eyes practically starry with anticipation.

 "We in fact, are famished. And tired. But we are here to inherit a blessing. It should arrive any second."

The followers seemed uninterested by her response, their hooded heads unwavering. They began to approach the cave cautiously, as if gauging the sincerity of her words. At that moment she looked back to the larger woman before her, and ducked, as Kronut fired forth a blast of raw magic at the cultists chest, causing her to double back. Heshstar and Ahtal'Xul immediately ran forward, their own blades positioned as they ran forward with brutish abandon. The cultist were swift, but not fast enough. Heshtar was tired, but they had always been strong enough to take the blows. And Ahtal'Xul was reeling for this the whole voyage, and despite cleaver not being meant to pierce, drove it through his opponent's guts. Xez'Karo would turn to see Sünalt attempting to stand back up, only for a powerful blow from the larger robes figure to send her back to the ground. Xez'Karo snarled, and immediately lunged out the cave to qrap their cloak around the woman's face. This did little, as the larger woman simply grabbed Xez'Karo from the arm, and threw her down hard, the smaller Raylu yelping in pain. But the woman was not observant of the movement Sünalt pulled, where she drove her blade deep down into the woman's arm, and sliced it diagonally to her wrist. The cultist howled in pain, as Sünalt grabbed Xez'Karo and slinked back into the cave. Kronut focused his ingitaru magic on the woman's open wound, causing her to be paralyzed in place from the pain. 

Heshstar finally landed a blog against his enemy, rewarding his fatigued self as the blow was strong enough to send the robed figure into all the cardinal directions, a purple pile of clothes stained in viscera. Ahtal'Xul had downed many, roaring into the sky as he dove his cleaver into the back of the yowling woman, who tried to elbow him away. Giving time for Sünalt to strike her in the head with a great stone, and silence her. The skirmish had been quick and brutal, but now they could rest. Except… the voice came again.

And asked them to eat.

Sünalt was stunned. She had expected a bit more fanfare. Perhaps they hadn't made it a game? A show of it? She checked Xez'Karo, who was suffering from a cracked shoulder, writhing silently in pain. Sünalt cradled her close, before looking at the carrion from Heshstar's blow. The voices asked why she had not begun to eat, and as Sünalt was about ready to speak, Heshstar took up the gristle and showed it to Sünalt. 

"I will eat the mangled core… she may eat the limbs… your leviathans are… crude. We eat our enemies now? That's how we stop the end?"

Sünalt looked confused, though when Heshstar threw her the limb, she handed it to Xez'Karo, looking down at her friend as they followed everyone else's directions, and sunk her teeth deep into the arm flesh, Sünalt watching. Before she finally spoke up, her voice sounded the tiniest bit aged from those 40 seconds of combat.

"Existence… is the struggle to exist… is it not?"

As Sünalt watched her friends consume the flesh of their fallen enemies, a mix of emotions washed over her.The voices in her visions had been right; to save her people, they needed power, and that the voices promised power through gorging on the fallen. It was a twisted truth, but one she couldn't ignore.

Gathering her courage, Sünalt reached for the limb and took a small bite. The taste was metallic, the texture unpleasant, but she pushed aside her repulsion and chewed. As she did, a strange energy seemed to surge through her body, filling her with newfound strength and vigor. It was as if the essence of her fallen foe was becoming a part of her, empowering her beyond her normal capabilities. And among such, was no longer the need for water. Fatigue was absent, and soon she bit more into the remains, alongside the rest of her kin

----

          Every kill made was done to sharpen the knife. She gained the same magic the cultist projected upon her. Great Sai beast ignored her, tunneling through the earth; they simply passed by her with total indifference. Great centipede beast with canine jaws scuttled past her and her group not with total indifference, but familiarity. Amethyst moths with draping wings and crushing mandibles flew around the group like scavenger birds, waiting for the next onslaught, for the Raylu group adopted this grisly ritual of eating rival cultists, knowing that it granted them an advantage in the Wastelands. The voices in their visions guided them further, leading them towards an ancient ruin that held the key to the salvation they sought. Feeding on the void's followers, engaging in more battles that tested their strength and cunning. 

          The voices warned them the cataclysm drew closer, and that they must find the sunken pyramids. That once they could glimpse the old ruins of Icathia, they must plunge themselves into the darkest hole they could find, and there the voices would bestow them the power to change their kind's history, and help  them avoid the great dying. 

Their encounters with the void's followers became more frequent, and they embraced their role as hunters, using the harnessed powers of the void worshippers to strike down those who posed a threat to them and their mission. Each cultist they defeated brought them closer to their ultimate goal—the salvation of their people and the prevention of the cataclysm that loomed over the world. The first month of jungle travel was now eclipsed by the two years of wild voyaging. Of jagged lightning nights and muddled, golden days, these forays into ancient wrecks and dagger-shimmering flights from monsters in robes: these had been the happiest times of their life.

Save for Sünalt And this was palpable to Xez’Karo and Heshstar. After having eaten seven more of their enemies, gathered around a makeshift camp-flame, Xez’Karo confronted the tired looking oracle that had brought them here.

“Sünalt, pensive one, what is it? What troubles you?”

Sünalt could do nothing but gaze from the fire back to the others, getting the attention of Kronut and Ahtal’Xul, before speaking with a worn, tired throat.

“Oath-bearing friends, we are two years into this journey. For two years we’ve worked to understand the visions, and now that we have eaten our enemies shouldn’t it be clearer? I am certain our people are ill, and the visions which started this only give us directions, not answers.”

We five will die here, in exile. The visions will outlive us. We sit too often I feel, but even though we always succeed in our hunts, and we need not drink, I am famished, and I still have found any way to stop our end.”

The other four  looked at each other, concern creeping over their expressions. Kronut grit their tooth-plates together, groaning back to the others. “I wish you weren’t so honest…” 

Heshstar thought that Sünalt had never been wrong, and her diagnosis was apt to their situation. Xez’Karo snapped and threw the arm bone of a cultist to the ground. “We followed you! Now you say it is for naught!?” Sünalt immediately stood up, looking back at the frail friend of hers: “I’m saying we are running out of time. Not that all is lost… But it is beginning to feel that way.”

Only for Heshstar to speak, raising themselves up to face the others.

“We have to dive, that's what the voices say to do. Dive into the earth, the world below us... towards the leviathans.”

Ahtal’Xul immediately spoke up on the preposition, slamming his cleaver’s broadside to his armored chest.

“But we must find the ruins first, we must find the pyramids sunken into the earth, as the leviathans of Sünalt  said, or are their words malleable?”

Sünalt instead, took her hand to her chest, and spoke up to the group as a whole, collected and firm.

“We have to dive,in the world beneath us, in the infected depths, I hope we may find what we need most...”

More time. More life.

----

The blade that seeks to understand, is a follower. A tool for greater things. They found a cavern, forged obviously not of runeterra metals, as it shimmered like a cold star, with the sheen and texture of both silver. They traveled beyond its maw, and deep, deeper into the earth, where light was not something luminous and like a blanket, nor fleeting and wisp like their abyss. No, light here was tangible, given shape and not allowed to pass that shape. And there, they found steps. Steps carved for people, yet they had seemingly never been worn. No voices greeted them, no fanfare. Nothing. Just darkness, darkness so devoid of light and shape that they felt bumbling blind for the first time in years. Sound traveled little, and so their whispers carried no definition or texture. Truly, they were alone. Until finally, a voice beckoned them forth from deep in the cavern: “OUR GUESTS! MOVE! MOVE LIKE THE BLADES THROUGH FLESH AND ARTERY YOU WIELDED NOT BUT A FEW DAYS PRIOR!”

Sünalt took off down to the base of the stairs, panting with newfound purpose, blade drawn just in case it was of rival cultists seeking to entrap them. A life of murder was preferable to one without sensation. She could tell her friends were behind her too, and this was almost as cathartic as feeling the pressure grow heavier, and the air tingle with static charge. At the bottom of the steps, the Raylu group found themselves in a vast underground chamber, illuminated by a soft, eerie glow. The source of the light was unclear, but it seemed to emanate from the very walls of the cavern, casting strange shadows that danced and writhed across the floor.

In the center of the chamber, they saw an enormous and grotesque set of creatures. They were great worms, much larger than any they had ever encountered, covered with segmented plates and numerous spines. Their heads were of a simple tetrahedral shape, broken up by lines of yellow-orange lights, which when the beast opened up their maws revealed six barbed mandibles. They moved through the solid floor, which constantly rippled and shifted seemingly as if it were sand. The worms' presence was overpowering, and their voice resonated in the minds of the Raylu like a haunting echo, reverberating their flesh and chitin alike.

"Welcome, seekers of power, you have come seeking salvation. You stand on the naked hull of an ancient city. You stand exposed to the crushing pressure and ferocious heat of the deeper Runeterra. It should annihilate you. It is by our combined will, you too, Vaylu brood, that you survive.”

Stunned at first, they began to recompose themselves when facing these beasts, which now were only the heads and trunklike bodies looking down upon them. Sünalt's eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice steady despite the foreboding presence before them. 

“We seek to save our people from the cataclysm that threatens to consume us. We came to you, seeking your voices, for this promise. What ritual do you seek now? Has our voyage and slaughter not been enough?."

The great worms let out a low, rumbling laugh that seemed to shake the very earth beneath their feet. "You misunderstand. Behold your voyage. Now behold your strength, your seasoned blades. Now behold my great and coiling length, my folded jaws and impenetrable carapace. Behold the earth symbiotic with my flesh. I have not summoned you to devour, I merely summoned you to inherit."

Ahtal'Xul growled, his skepticism evident in his tone. For there was now uncertainty of their required presence.

"Then this is to parlay? What is the price we must pay for your court?" The worms responded, their voice echoing through their tooth-plates down to their telson.

"For time uncountable, we have been patient in the Deep Earth. From across the sun-orbiting globe, we have called life to Icathia, so that it might contend against extinction. For millennia We have awaited you... our beloved hosts."

Sünalt exchanged glances with her friends. They knew the dangers of making a pact, especially with such entities, and they understood that the consequences could be dire. Yet the worms continued to speak. “Against you stand the cruel Leviathans, The Evermoving,  and all the forces of the Celestials. They would crush you down into the dark. They have arranged their sun and moon to drown you, in fear of your potential. We want to help you, forgotten Vastaya. We offer to each of you a bargain... a symbiosis.”

Taking a step forward, Sünalt spoke back to the great worms.

"We will not be your mindless servants, but I may bow my carapaced crest to you, should you give us your conditions.."

The worms surrounding the central one opened their maws wide, revealing rows of sharp teeth that glistened in the eerie light. Suddenly, a torrent of void energy, burning orange and coldest violet, surged forth from their jaws, swirling and coiling like a malevolent storm. Sünalt and her friends braced themselves, only for the flames to create a veil between them, and the rest of the chamber, as the greatest worm still looked down upon them. The energy was both intoxicating and terrifying, threatening to overwhelm their senses. Yet they held their ground, as the great worm spoke:

“Take into your bodies our blood, our vital truth From them you shall obtain eternal life. From them you shall gain power over your own fragile flesh: the power to make of it as you will. And should you find an imperfection in the world, an injustice or an inconvenience — you will have the power to repair it. Let no mere law bind you.

We ask two things in exchange.

You must obey your nature forever. In your immortality, Kronut, you may never cease to explore and inquire, for the sake of your kin. In your immortality, Xez’Karo, you may never cease to test your strength. In your immortality, Heshstar, you must never stop your duty as warrior, and must always face a killing blow. In your immortality, Ahtal’Xul, you must never back down from a challenge. And in your immortality, Sünalt, you may never abandon cunning. For you are now agents of The Empress, who wishes to reshape this world and end cataclysm. To deny your nature, the blood you ingest will consume you. And as your power grows, oh sovereigns, so will the weight of your blood.”

Sünalt hesitated, looking up at the great worms, and shuddered at the thought of denying this chance. Was her life, her comfort, more valuable than the weight of Runeterra’s demise. She thought not. With conviction in her voice, she finally spoke. 

"We swear our loyalty to The Empress, O Great Worm. Grant us your power, and we shall serve you to the best of our abilities."

As the words left her lips, a cut appeared on the worm,, shimmering blood black as tar falling down its form. The great worm acknowledged their oath with a nod. "Go forth, seekers of power, cup your hands and take our blood as vassals. The void shall be your ally, and you shall save Runeterra from ruin. 

For you are now synonymous with death, and control.”

----

"I don't have a strict proof yet, you know. This thing we believe — that we're liberating the world by devouring it, that we're cutting out the rot, that we're on course to join the final shape — I haven't found a strict, eternal proof. We might yet be wrong."

Sünalt looked from her home, her new throne south of The Shadow Isles, observing the thick mist that clung to it from a perch-stone. Fins like the wings of a lunar moth draped around her like a royal cloak, her crown like a hammerhead’s own skull, as piercing green eyes burned within her. To her side, a confused Vaylu drone looked from her to the mist, scratching their head with hooked, carnivorous talons.

“...perhaps I need a new look at it all. Do you think Viego would mind some… visitation?”

The drone shrugged, looking at itself and her repeatedly before hissing something out, Sünalt raising her hand to cease her servant’s tongue. “I know we can’t truly devour them. But I believe we can still make friends with prey.”

----

Passive - By the Blade's End: Sünalt gains health back on the first spell she deals damage with. If she is already at full health, then she gains a temporary shield. Additionally, when an enemy champion dies nearby, she gains a cool down boost to her abilities and passive.

Q- A Dirge: Sünalt unleashes barrages of void-infused projectiles in a targeted area, damaging all enemies within range. The blasts deal increased damage based on the target's missing health

W- Binding The Elements: Sünalt creates arcs or energy, the first moving left as lightning which does ap damage and knocks the enemy into the air. The next one appears as a line of frost which slows the enemy and grounds them.

E - So I May Drown in the Deep: Sünalt reaches out with her hand, creating a void-infused grasp that damages and immobilizes a single enemy champion. The enemy champion is dealt Damage Over Time during the stun and afterwards for 0.4-2 seconds(increases as ability is maxxed)

Finally my own content hooorah!

So, for those who haven't caught on, I love creature/character design, I love Destiny, I love Monster Hunter, and I love League of Legend's world building. This culminated in one of my projects of fan champions inspired by monster hunter and destiny.

Before Bel’veth was even launched, I had grown uninterested in new champs because well riot was going through its shirtless hunk era and the sparkly faced whatever the fuck Lilia is era. And though I like Sett and I can appreciate Yone, they ultimately served the "Sex Sells" argument of champ design. All of this later culminated in the Ruined King event, which just... sucked. Viego was the biggest offender of that, and characters like Gwen really felt like cop-outs. I was excited for a living doll, and we got well...

Anyways alot of complaining I openly was unhappy with the newest designs and among mutuals at the time the main thing brought up is "monsters don't sell", people want to look at something pretty not something unfuckable. I found this concept absurd because I could list many times fiction depicting monsters in a non-scantily clad light took off. And so I created this mini project, inspired by the monster hunter caste.

The idea was to make monstrous champions, from lore to kit to aesthetic, interesting to the player, and engaging enough to revisit. And monster hunter to me, had honed that down. It's a game about hunting creatures that can take up to 40 minutes of just chipping away at fantastical megafauna, taking the kill, reveling in it!-

Than repeating because you need more parts but a good monster! Makes the returning fight still engaging. And one monster I especially loved was Bazelgeuse. A strong bombastic and cinematic theme, a massive hitbox. Literal explosions pouring out of it from bomb like scales... and that reverberating trilling roar was just... mwa! And as a fan of playing as the meaty bastards in top lane Like Volibear, Cho'Gath, Malphite, and Sion, I thought that for a tankier crowd-controlling bruiser we deserve the same spectacle up there!

And so here was my attempt: Kyridon, The Custodian of The Sands.

....

Not all who seek adventure are running from something. Not all who are sent for battle do so for a noble purpose or greater plan. No, some just wish to have their fun. Ever since time memorial, the Rocs were ancient wardens of the skies over Shurima and Targon, their presence usually inciting reverence and awe at their body crushing might. Even more terrifying was their power over flame, and when combined with their explosive dust that showered upon their foes from their feathers, oftentimes turned the earth below into a warzone no man is able to take head on. After the Rune Wars, their numbers waned, and they became a more elusive sight as the centuries carried on. They now patrolled the land as ever searching scavengers, often coming in to feast on the sun-bleached meals of travelers and beast below, occasionally hunting the weakened caravanners or outcast of Targon. Yet occasionally, a Roc might bring home trinkets they exchanged with the wiser nomads of the lands they patrolled, or Guardians who offered them some blessings for their travels. Kyridon, the chick of an eccentric literary collector, would wander to his mother's horde and read up on the epics of the races below. These tales, which told of the Ancient Ascended Rulers of Shurima or the Divine Aspects that protected Targon. His little mind was filled with dreams of great power. He wished to be revered for his might. Or, more simply put: "Look cool beating the shit out of someone."

As Kyridon grew, his form was something else to behold, far longer and more wyverian in design than the massive raptorial visage of his kin. The first sparking of a Roc is usually quite uneventful, as they shed their feathers, they slowly begin to shed the explosive scales their kin are known for, and frequently if was accidentally ignited by the emerging Flame sac the Roc possessed, it is usually but a surprising pop that is far more bark than bite. Kyridon, of course, was not so harmless. His ventral feathers on his neck and tail appeared to be braided, ending in feathered clumps that looked like a rosebud. He wasn't producing the explosive scales the rest of his clutch did, so his father, a venerated warrior, took it upon himself to try and teach his chick how to use their explosive arts. Shaking his body, the larger Roc jumped back, and letting out a blast of fire from his maw, ignited the ember- like cloud lingering on the ground, creating a fantastical explosion. Kyridon looked bewildered, and not wanting to disappoint did the same, but instead, the rose buds bloomed with a fiery glow and fell to the earth like a gourd. As he jumped back, he blew just a small flame onto them, and the explosion it produced threw him back and staggered his father. As the sand and smoke cleared, the crater left was far larger than what was typical of a Roc his age. His son was gifted, incredibly so. Along with his musculature, there was no doubt his son was meant to fight.

For the four years Kyridon lived under his parent's roost, every day, he was taken to train and hunt with his father and the others of his colony. He was their Desert Rose, a poster child for their little enclave where the mountains touched the desolate sands. Their praise, however, diluted his vision, and for all his stoicism, he had grown rebellious as well. With so much power, he wished to claim himself as The Roaming Tyrant of these lands. The Custodian of the Waste!"

It wasn't a gradual takeover either, Kyridon had all the subtlety of a firework's display. At first, he set his eyes to the raiders of the sands, those who followed the "Butcher of the Sands." In his mind, he believed himself to be starting an epic, starting with what he assumed to be the "Bad Guy." And at first, the little almost chortle like squawks he made before he did every attack was confusing, bewildering. Before the Rose Feathers began to pelt the earth, detonating on impact with the sands, throwing man, mount, and ground around. Then, the cries for war became more clear as he descended down to attack his foe- no... his prey.

He'd drop his explosive covering onto the earth, as if outlining a runway... Then he'd release an earth shattering bellow, before the beast crashed into the earth, setting his own explosive feathers off as he dragged himself across the ground. His foes were engulfed in flame, the sands polished into smooth glass. Standing up from the carnage he'd patrol around for survivors, eating whoever wasn't entirely scattered across the wastes, then take off once more.

Soon, his roar, his silhouette, his behavior spread across the land. Tales of the strange roc that dropped bombs upon his targets inspired fear upon those who had to trek the open, as they knew well how standing their ground made it easy for him to dive upon his victims. Yet if they were to run, they heard he would still pursue them, until they broke into cover, in which case they'd hear a cry of pure rage as the explosives would descend onto their shelter, as he flew off to find a better fight. And while at first Kyridon attacked those he knew to be the raiders on the outskirts of his colony's territories... he hungered for another chapter to his story.

He soared over the dunes, immediately working upon asserting himself as the apex of the land. He'd steal kills from the invasive void beast or the crocodilians and jackals of the dunes. His own explosives made for a great way to assert himself in any situation, as most would cower at the carnage raining down from above and the vibrations quaking the earth around them. For those who were perhaps too foolish, they'd be met with the beast landing before them, bill snapping, as it charged at them, Kyridon throwing his weight around with little finesse, focusing more on his brutish strength than any greater level of strategy. It, however, grew boring, it grew stale, they didn't tell stories of scavengers, they told stories of warriors and kings! So he began to survey the land, looking for a fight. After two days of searching, he found it, a scuffle between some desert trolls and shuriman nomads. But from so high up, it seemed like a battle of raiders against one another. Such barbarism had to be dealt with swiftly, and so Kyridon descended onto the battle, his explosive feathers dropping around them in a run by flight, as he soared over them yet again, casting his shadow over their terrified forms. Naturally, they raised their arms, and Kyridon dived for the kill.

The battle that ensued was violent, as the beast let off his explosions around them to create a ring for the brawl. He threw his weight around, dragging his head across the ground as he crashed into the crowd with the force of a comet. Smash into everyone, crash into everything, the reckless abandon befitting of kamikaze. Fire threw from his maw, as spell and blade pierced his side, the one leading the trolls throwing a javelin into his neck, Kyridon dropping more feathers from his neck and tail reflexively. He roared in the heat of the moment out of raw joy of the carnage he participated in, not knowing this peculiar below would be enough to light the fuse. As he turned his head to face the troll in charge of his own entourage, him and his opponent were enveloped in sand and flame. As the smoke subsided, he charged forward, hoping to meet his opponent, and instead found nothing but remains. He performed his usual, searching for something to scavenge on that was intact.

However, as he approached a wagon, having been tossed away due to the explosion, he heard coughing. He was snapped out of his foraging trance. He approached the wagon, tearing the fabric off, finding a human child, singed and with broken legs, the bone visible. Kyridon felt his heart sink. Why was there a child here... They looked so young, why didn't he smell them... Why did he attack then?! Heroes defended the innocent, stood for what's right, and legends favored the noble. He heard a whimper, not just from the child, but the female troll whose weapon was now lodged on the back of his neck. He looked around. Everything else was just charred, broken. His battle trance wavered, and he felt shame, knowing he had scarred this child and that the woman on the other side of the crater had perhaps lost something dear to her too. He spilt blood, and while he found it quite easy and fun, here it just felt... wrong. He was astronomically stronger than most of his opponents. He knew that. He didn't think for a second. That was his problem.

The damage was already done, but maybe he could bring them somewhere safer. He gently took both troll and child into his bill and took off, searching the lands for a village to properly bring them to. He flew faster than he ever had before, and as the sun faded behind the dunes and the moon took its place, he found a village fortified by intricately carved stone. But no matter how high it stood, he could simply glide over. He landed in the middle of a bustling market, mortifying all present. As they cowered in their structures, the guard rushing to aid them and drive away the Roc, Kyridon gently laid the two towns against a stall, before taking wing and leaving the market, fighting the urge to combat the guard who pelted him with arrow and bolt. As he soared across the desert, searching for a new place to roost, the sight of the broken boy and woman twisted something in his gut, and as he finally roosted atop a peak overlooking the dunes, he found no solace in resting, simply questioning what it was all for. Was he the hero of his story, or just a self-serving beast, diluted by grandeur.

He stalked the dunes silently now, searching for prey he deemed able to put up a fight, creatures that did not immediately fall to his attacks. However, it became a struggle in his turf, and thus, he had to go toward the "Great Sai," where the most dangerous beast of the desert sands lurked. He had been warned of the Great Worms of that land, and the Sand Sharks and Earth Swimmers, that they were not of this world, and that even the smallest fought with the ferocity of a Rok. But that's what Kyridon needed, a proper fight. As he soared over The Great Sai, it wasn't long to spot the tunnels made by his new prey. Dropping some of his heavier feathers onto the ground, he'd see the sand part as figures immediately swam in for the kill. Only to arrive just as the explosion set off, throwing those hidden by the dunes away and onto the surface, and thus attracting more prey. This, this was the fight he wanted, those who did not flee from the explosions! He roared out to the swarm of purple chitin layered beast below them, opening up their inky black maws to roar at him. He crashed into the earth, setting off more explosive feathers around him, as the swarm would pour over his form. He did not rest. He did not halt, he tackled swatches of the beast, setting off more explosions that slayed many but drew in even more. Fire scorched and bubbled the exposed flesh of his enemies, his bill chomping through their shells. As they lunged from below and tried to gut him, he'd lift himself into the air, crashing back down on the advancing tide, their bodies splintered and fractured. He did this many times over, scoring dozens of bodies out of it, like a gluttonous demon he'd feast on their bodies for weeks, before diving into the heart of the tide, wishing to partake in the cathartic slaughter of these beasts.

He eventually grew tired and stalked after the Great Void Worms, stealing their meals at first with a surprise assault from his run by explosive tactics. But soon, the beast learned of his tactics and tried to bring the fight to him. Such exciting concepts invigorated him, and he met their own savagery with his unparalleled eagerness to brawl. These fights were the stuff of legends, and many told of that same Bomber Roc tackling the whale sized beast of the sands, sealing their fate. The cries of his prey lingered on for minutes before falling silent, his own cry of victory ringing out across the Great Sai.

His feast was plentiful, subsidized by the invader beast and their caches, he ruled over the skies like some guardian beast. No longer did he pursue the Caravans and those passing under his guise. He was now the brilliance that ruled the dunes, The Custodian Of The Waste. And thus, it put him at odds with the Queen Beast of the Sands, Rek'Sai. Innumerable were their fights together, as he preyed upon her and her kin, and for years The Subterranean Queen and The Avian Tyrant dueled in the Sais, leaving craters in the earth, and tumbling stone monuments. Many let the beast fight, less they attract either the Warhead's Ire or the Queen's Wrath. Of course, the two were met in a stalemate, beings of raw power colliding for one goal: Domination. However, it was obvious Kyridon was undeniably controlling the numbers of Rek'Sai's kin, and so, drawn to the commotion, came a desert wanderer, violet eyes under indigo cloth standing out amidst the sands.

The Traveler wandered for a few days, walking among the skeletons of wildlife and void creatures alike, many embedded in the sides of deep craters. It didn't take long for the Sand Swimmers to grow interested in him, a few lunging forward in the sand to attack the strange nomad. He was unbothered by them. He knew once they got close enough, they could see what he truly was. But before they could, he felt his body tremble when he heard the roar of the one he came to greet. Diving down upon the Sand Swimmers, Kyridon didn't even bother with explosives, simply smashing into everyone, crashing into everything. The Traveler barely avoided the Roc as it tossed about a sand swimmer caught in its jaws, and to the nomad's surprise, the other sand swimmers abandoned their kin to be devoured on the spot. The Traveler hesitated for a bit before confronting the Roc.

"...Are you the Custodian of the Waste?"

The creature hesitated, stopping its crunching and tearing, looking back at him.

"What of it?"

Luckily for him, the creature was not one to immediately fire upon him, he continued to talk with the beast as it pulled its head back, its bill hook helping free softer flesh from muscle and ligaments. He peered into the being's thoughts, probing its mind with greater finesse.

"So- you used to soar all across Shurima, why did you stop in the Sais?"

"I was looking for fights... Just so happened it was... One Sided."

He was growing bored of the conversation, the Traveler could feel it, plus he was almost done with his meal, it wouldn't be long before he took off. The Traveler prepared for the worst, ready to cast a shield upon himself as he forced out his words.

"The Child and Woman, whose friends and family you butchered-"

And Immediately the beast turned to face him, his feathers rising as he stomped over to face the nomad, a fire brewing in the back of his throat. The Traveler had to continue, less a fight would ensue.

"They reside in a village, the same one you dropped them in, and it is under the protection of Xerath. But another, with an army made of the desert itself, is on the warpath, and the Village will not bow to a new king, and so they will be silenced. I came here, so you may quit the fight with the Voidborn, and bring it to someone who is actually endangering the Innocent."

The Roc stared for a bit, his gaze hard to read. He stomped over and as the mage called upon his shield, it saved him from being directly smashed into the earth by the tyrant's swinging head. Yet as they were thrown back into the Earth, Kyridon spread his wings and began to take to the air, looking down at the mage-

"So, youre saying there is a good war to fight?"

----

Kyridon traveled from the Sai and flew to the West, as he was carried by the drafts to gain a higher altitude, trying to find the village he left those two behind all those years ago. He spent three days on the wing, scouring the dusty plains for the fight. On the fourth day he saw a village, in the beginning throes of a siege, a man in the distance raising his hand, and the sands themselves formed into a legion of warriors that marched forward towards the village. This was no raiding party, this was a full out battle. He soared in lower, and could see siege equipment being pushed by men with jackal-like heads, and there in the frontlines, trying to push the Sand Soldiers back, was an older female troll, and a man with prosthetic legs. He for some reason felt his mind revert into a battle trace, as he furrowed his brow, gazing at the sand horde below, catching the attention of the sorcerer general, he then let out a warcry that he hadn't bellowed in sometime. The two at the frontlines looked up, their faces paling. They immediately began to tell their men to fall back past the walls, as rosebud-like feathers bloomed in the air as they fell to the floor, the jackal headed men looking confused.

Then the explosions rang off, as Sand Guardian after Sand Guardian returned to dust as their lines were blown apart. As the Jackal Headed men tried to retreat, they found only a searing heat met them from above, and for those who did not succumb to the flame, a crushing weight as Kyridon crashed head first through the earth. With momentum alone, he carved his way through the enemy lines before fixing himself up onto his back legs, roaring into the heavens as he charged forward, any poor soul trampled underfoot. Their searing blades meant nothing, the presence of his blood on the sand motivated him in ways he hadn't felt before. He threw his neck and tail haphazardly, letting them detonate once they made contact with any of the men surrounding him. His flame turned those closest to him into grains of glass, and those not scorched by the flame were charged at, helping detonate any of his explosives that weren't set off. The village looked on at the war-torn earth, and the one man army pushing the enemies' forces back. A spark returned to Kyridon that hadn't been felt in a long while, the spark of war, of might, what all true legends strive for! To be witnessed!

As the man who set upon this small legion to attack the village began to retreat, the Roc felt the need to pursue and grow stronger. He took to the skies, soaring faster than the man could run, as he trailed explosives behind him, making a runway straight for the coward's position. He began to dive again, his wings out as he barreled into the earth, his head raised and his mouth open to roar as he prepared himself to nab the man with his bill alone. As the explosions set off around him, he grew so close, so close to taking a bite out of the coward!- Only for a wall, one of shields and blades stronger than any stone met him head on, as the beast was thrown back, a massive explosion accompanying his collapse as the world began to dim. When he came to, he saw the village garrison looking on at him in fear and wonder. The Roc clamped his bill together, finding nothing. It audibly groaned as it dragged itself out of the crater, scorch marks everywhere. He flexed his wings, finding no permanent injuries on him. And the army he had been assaulting had disappeared without a trace. Yet that wasn't right. There had been flesh and blood he knew it that much. Unless, of course, their mages had helped them retreat. As soon as he realized what happened, he laughed hysterically. The thrill that fight brought him, the adrenaline! He took wing and soared out to find the man who gave him that brawl and finally finish it off. He wasn't done with this man of sand. He was a Roc on a mission: crashing his foe’s party.

Kyridon Kit:

His Passive is similar to Garren's old passive, where you do more damage to people who have a bounty on them, the theme being you're going after the best fights, and his kit is very explosive and offensive

Passive- The Warhead: Kyridon foes more damage to enemies with a bounty, and after takedown, gains a significant movement speed bonus and temporarily decreases ability cooldown.

Q-Fussilade Torp: Kyridon breathes out fire in a straight line in a straight trajectory, doing ap damage upon impact. Can detonate explosives if they make contact. Enemies marked with Q can be dashed into to knock them off the ground.

W- Piledriver: Kyridon charges forward, doing AD damage and pushing people back. Knocks enemies up into the air after being hit by Q, and impact with explosives will cause them to detonate.

E- Gravefall: Kyridon drops a set of interactive explosives in a given area, which, when detonated deal AD damage with AP afterburn. These can be triggered with Q or W.

R- Party Crasher: A chanelling ability, Kyridon flies overhead, dropping explosive feathers as to make a "Runway," which he then then crashes through the entire length of till reaching the end, creating explosions on both sides.

....

It's pretty obvious even when reading, and especially look at this raggedy ass doodle I did his inspirations

Visually he takes Inspiration from Bazelgeuse from Monster Hunter and Phoenix from Dota 2. This is done to add weight to his character and to add a feeling of luminous to him, as if he wishes to be the center of attention. And it helps make him stand out. He is heavy bodied with a massive tail, but instead is alit like a fire, with a sharp bill and robust wings that make him feel as though every scene he is in he captures everyone's awe. Or terror.

Also because Phoenix from Dota 2 is a comfort character and I wanted to make Kyridon a bird.

Kyridon might not be subtle, but he speaks like a Herculean hero. He is full of pride but also believes that for his legacy to live on, he must constantly punch above his weight class. He isn't looking to bully people weaker than him. He's looking to provoke someone stronger than him.

He is utterly violent and bombastic, but he uses his aggression to find higher purpose and praise. This is why he finds kinship with the concepts of self-made legends. People who raised above their station. To him, that is like the ideal dream and aspiration to hold to. Unfortunately, his tactics are pretty mid, and his intimidating bulk is what keeps him from being minced meat.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT WONT LET ME SEND THIS

I hate just sending a doc link. Alright, rebreather.

Astronmoically painful I cant send it on tumblr. I had sparknotes and everything.

Guess I'll repeat my previous points:

>Gosakujos takes visual inspiration from two monsters, a real world myth, and one real world animal. Those being-

-One is Magnamalo, for the thematics of a corrupted samurai, or a cruel indifferent shogun. Armaments also inspired the head gear, shoulder, and forelimbs.

-Next is Zamtrios because of the low profile and oddly agile nature of it. It takes amphibians and makes them a formidable force, something not common in fantasy mrdia to be completely honedy. Plus, Gosakujos is just as home in the water as he is the mountain forest

-For his "kit", Raijin was acreditted to further hone in the idea of a chaotic nature entity, with Raijin being a chaotic storm god that had a taste for human navels and children.

-Coloration and the larval forms in his backstory are based around Viper Sharks, simply because when Zamtrios was fully decided as part of design inspiration, it created an eerie, alien feel to Gosakujos. While still tying it into the whole "shark frog" vibe.

>Ionian Champs tend to be pretty and sexy, or fully covered. I get it I do, sexy designs sell, but every other region does it too with more variety. Ionia can be fucking frightening and I'd like to see a monstrous exploration of it.

>I wanted to write soft horror.

Here's the beast as a sketch.

And I made a Spotify for it.

The Wyvern'tl are an ancient lineage of Parave, that in a more geological scale, their rise to intelligence is incredibly recent, evolving just a little before humanity. They are incredibly efficient predators, using their powerful wings to catch the rising drafts of the land and their talons to snatch prey in midflight. Wyvern'tl are defined culturally by their role usually as the "village elder." Due to their long-lived nature, a wyvern can accumulate a athenaeum worth of knowledge or the experience of hundreds of battles. Socially more reclusive Wyvern'tl are no less brighter than their outgoing cousins, but they are far more distrustful of the other races.

Few species are so naturally predisposed to curation and legacy quite like the Wyvern'tl. Once found across the earth with the same prolific status of humanity, historical persecution usually forces them into seclusion away from prying eyes. And while most need to be sought for their knowledge, some wish to spread their skills on word of wing.

Wizard: Like the mages of those before, wizards are Wyvern'tls that are obsessed with magic. They may offer their services to covens, as a wizard has a horribly sharp mind, and it allows them to catalog and recount all manners of myth and legend.

Windshearers: Wyvern'tls who descend from far more aerial lineages, allowing them to ride on wings like the Ahzas and their feral brethren. Windshearers have an uncanny knack for aerial combat and are just as prone to descending onto their opponents as if they were a bird of prey.

Saykts: These Wyvern'tls are of a caste that allow them to practically live their whole lives on the ground. With more reinforced "hands" for combat, and thicker tail and necks, it is said they descended from Wyvern'tls that worship a long gone God, which in exchange for adept flight, gave them immense strength.

"Earth, a seven billion year oddysey. It is known to many races outside its confines as a death world, filled with hostile fauna, rugged environments, and viral anomalies alike. Yet its story, complex and ever weaving, shows us patterns. And its history, though lost to most, is not completely forgotten.

Ancient forces once thrived here, their legacy flowing through all matter and energy in this "Solar System", and theoretically beyond.

And though they would disappear, the spark of life persisted. Evolving and changing. Civilizations would rise, than fall. Often to hubris, sometimes to things beyond their control. Earth as we know it, is reeling from one such situation, which birthed a great period of harshness, leading to the rise of one species: Humanity.

Mankind dominated every biome they roamed through, erecting great sites of commerce, and weaving tales of things beyond their grasp. They weren't always alone, surrounded by beings alive and dead, by beings made before time, and life of artificial creation. They once coexisted in a time now dimly remembered. A period they called many things, but one stood tall: The Age of Myth.

Led by an Old Kin named Duran'Orl, it was an age of heroes, monsters, great sorcerers, and awe inspiring kingdoms. This age provoked and inspired great change, erected demigods, and created immortal warriors. Runestones were erected to harness the earth's magic, and they peered and found answers in worlds beyond theirs.

Though it was full of strife, those who remember it, remember it as their Golden Age.

But like all golden ages, it was doomed to collapse.

Duran'Orl vanished, and soon many fell into conquest. Humanity fed into a new found ego, and those who profited in blood and deceit, created something. A voice in the darkness which referred to itself as Forbidden Truth, which soon cast upon a great shadow on the world. It created dismay, but it could have only been manifested if such vile wrath was already there. And like a great wind, scattered the many species, tribes, and cultures of this age, leading only humanity to be plentiful enough to take over. With the last of their strength, the other species hid away from mankind to create something new…

And there the curtain was draped, and as humanity grew stronger, those within humanity considered that acknowledging the other species brought only ruin, and threatened their hold of the world, and worked tirelessly to keep them hidden. Humanity prospered, while the others lurked far, far away. But mankind grew larger, and larger, and there was only so much earth. This hubris, and those in power meddling with things beyond their control, created a horrifying arms race that would decide the fate of the earth. Terrans face many threats these days. Threats native to the planet, and Invaders from beyond their system.

Covenants and Cabals seek to to scavenge the remains of prior Golden Ages, hoping the ancient's tech can allow them to inherit the earth as their own.

Warmongerers came for available territory and resources. For conquest. Some represent the dark underside of humanity's status quo, others its dismantling.

Those accursed and ravenous worshipers of death, feeding the infernal hunger of their dark gods or hedonist lords. Earth to them is just proof of bloody ritual.

And those strange living constructs, hellbent on recreating reality in their own brutal image. Something about earth makes them pause in their desires, or is it planning?

Humanity fights among themselves, as well. Though now, as their world grows sicker and smaller, some, human or not, are banding together. To rebuild. To heal. To explore the world before its mysteries are revealed for all to see, and to try and take the power away from tyrants and murderers. Only time can tell if this however, meant anything in the grand scale. For those ancient, patterns that foretell collapse, are repeating."

An original project of mine, Awakened: Bleeding Realm has gone by many names and covered many time periods. Once known as dawn, it was the take of tradional fantasy in the prehistoric age, where we saw the rise of elves, dwarf, lizardfolk, and man during the settings last glacial maximum. Now, roughly 6 years later it has been made into a more modern setting, taking place within our own timeline. And has been given the project name: The Hermitverse. The Hermitverse is a setting in which the myths and conspiracies of our world are not entirely founded in fear or superstition. Within the context of this world: cryptids, spirits, monsters, aliens, shadow agencies, hard AI, gods, vast underground complexes, and alternative dimensions are indeed real. Despite this, the human populace is for the most part unaware of these entities or believe them all to be hoaxes. This masquerade has forced many of these beings into hiding, causing strain between the “two worlds” as the modern day proves that such a herculean task of hiding them is no longer feasible. The setting takes on multiple narratives, following the dilemmas of the many peoples of this world and how they interact with the ever changing landscape. There are characters I've focused on however. While I usually don't write human leads, I have one for this setting: His names Gabriel: A once lonely, scarred hermit of a man. Raised in an evangelical household and used as a prodigy (mouth piece) by his mad woman of a mother so could get cloud from her church, he was later placed in custody of his grandparents, who after passing on left the house to him to inherit. As he grew up, he grew an intense fear of the faith, but not the idea of God. It drew him some comfort that perhaps some greater power out there could, in one way or another, offer safety. Doing just enough to graduate high school, he took himself to working odd jobs, becoming heavily disenfranchised with the rest of the world.

Though some chance encounters change that.

Awakened: Bleeding Realm is being about him healing through learning to thrive within the "two worlds" , and making his own family while trying to help others around the country out.